Awakening the Night Flower
by NoCleverSig
Summary: COMPLETE! October 3, 1888. Jack was going to kill her. She was going to die. Yet all she could think of, as tears ran helplessly down her cheeks, was how much she loved him.  Last of the "Seasons" series but also stands alone.
1. Chapter 1

Seasons: Fall  
><strong>Awakening the Night Flower (Part 1 of 2)<br>**(Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig)

**Author's Note:** _This is the fourth and final installment of my"Seasons" series, exploring how Helen and John's relationship originally might have been. This is the darkest of the series, as John becomes the Ripper. Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks as always to the world's best beta, MajorSam. Peace. NCS_

The blood slid down Helen Magnus' brow like a trickle of thick, warm sweat. The dim, lantern light bounced off the chestnut colored floor and hit Helen's blue eyes like shards of orange glass. She shut them tight in defense, but it was pointless. The pain seared through her forehead, traveling across her temples to the back of her head making the room spin in darkness and her stomach lurch in response. It took a moment for her to recall where she was and how she had gotten there, prone on the hard, cold floor, her garments hiked high above her waist, her thighs, her head, her body aching from the blows.

A quick flash of light blinded her, and she winced, squeezing her eyelids tight in response. She could feel the weight of his body on top of her. The soft, warm wisps of breath beside her cheek, the terrifying coolness of the thin metal blade pressed against her neck. She shivered. When she finally opened them, he was inches from her lips, his dark eyes meeting hers and smiling.

He was going to kill her. She was going to die. Yet all she could think of in that moment, as tears began to run helplessly down her cheeks, was how much she loved him.

* * *

><p>James Watson handed the slide to Helen Magnus who carefully placed it under the microscope and began her perusal. Her pink, lace dress hung loosely on her shoulders. She'd lost weight in recent weeks, Watson noted, weight she couldn't afford to lose. Her skin was sunken, her cheeks sallow, and dark circles draped her usually bright eyes. Even Tesla, self-absorbed as he was, had commented on it and had urged Watson to intervene. James eventually had, surreptitiously watching Helen before finally inquiring directly as to her health, probing her for details on what may be causing her obvious lack of sleep and worrisome loss of appetite.<p>

She'd evaded him, waving her hand in dismissal, dropping her eyes, and ignoring his concerns as "misplaced overprotective masculinity" in the wake of her father's recent absence. But as the days passed and her condition worsened, Watson finally breached the subject he was most timid to touch; not only because it involved his best friend, but because it came perilously close to his own, unresolved emotions for that friend's fiancé.

"Helen, is there something amiss between you and John?"

She visibly stiffened at the question.

"Why would you think such a thing, James?" she responded haltingly, her eyes not leaving the microscope though her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

James stepped forward, placing one hand on her shoulder. "Because try as I might, I cannot discern anything physically wrong with you, my dear. That leaves…something else," he trailed off.

Helen stood up and turned toward him, glancing at the hand still pressed against her shoulder. Her expression softened. She looked weak, vulnerable even, her eyes red and moist. She opened her mouth to speak, then just as quickly closed it and turned away, walking toward the open window that lifted the noise from the busy streets of Chelsea up into Watson's home.

There was a growing darkness in John. She could sense it, feel it. Ever since that horrible dinner party at Oscar Wilde's house, a stone's throw away from Watson's, John had changed. To the rest of the five he seemed his normal, clever, quick-witted self, sharing a Brandy, a cigar, and a good-natured bumping of intellects with Nikola and James. But when they were alone….The memories made Helen shiver. Even their lovemaking had grown dark. Together they had performed acts so despicable, so degrading she felt…unclean.

"Let's play a game," John had whispered one night.

They had spent the day together. The late summer rain had ruined their planned picnic in Regent's Park, but neither Helen nor John cared. They took their lunch inside, laying a blanket in Helen's parlor. When the food and wine had run out and another hunger took precedence, they moved their festivities upstairs. The two servants in the house remained below, by now used to the omnipresence of Montague John Druitt in the Magnus home. If they thought it scandalous, sinful, they didn't say. It wasn't their place.

"Let's play a game," John whispered again, his hot breath blowing onto Helen's snow white breasts making her nipples tight. They lay naked in her bed, their bodies slick with sweat from hours of lovemaking. There was an almost supernatural energy to John as of late. In their first months together, they would make love once, maybe twice, and then fall blissfully asleep in one another's arms. It was passionate, but pure, Helen reminisced. Beautiful in its simple eloquence. But in the weeks since the night of the dinner party, sex between them had changed. It was frenzied, wild, and at times so rough it hurt. John seemed to revel in it. What bothered Helen the most, however, was that she did too, far more than a decent woman ought it seemed.

Her eyes were closed, exhausted by their most recent coupling. Her hand lazily toyed with John's hair as he laid across her belly, occasionally kissing her stomach, her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue and teeth. Her thighs were sore, divinely so. He had taken her from behind, prying her legs apart as wide as her body would allow and driving into her so hard she had felt his cock banging against her womb. He used to be gentle, kind, always whispering words of encouragement and tenderness. But those words had disappeared, replaced instead by grunts and curses and phrases that would make a Christian woman blush.

"What kind of game?" she indulged him, still stroking his fine brown hair with her fingers.

He turned his cheek toward her, his face pressed against her belly, his blue eyes shining with desire and what she mistook as adoration.

"A child's game really. A game of pretend."

Helen narrowed her eyes at him and grinned.

"John Druitt, you are many things but a child isn't one of them."

He laughed, the vibrations shaking the bed and echoing through her abdomen.

"Do you trust me?"

Helen stared at him. He was her first. Her first love, her first lover. They were to be married in eight months, binding their lives together forever. She trusted him completely; mind, body, even soul, if such a thing existed.

"Of course, John," she answered honestly.

He smiled again and stood up, suddenly leaving her cold from his absence. He walked toward her wardrobe and opened the cherry wood chest, sifting through the various gowns hanging there.

"What are you doing?" Helen asked curiously, sitting up and automatically pulling at the sheet to cover her nakedness.

He took a moment to answer, intent on his surveillance. "Looking for just the right…" He stopped, fingering a deep crimson gown Helen had bought on a whim and rarely wore. It was tight, bawdy even, and far too revealing to be considered decent.

"This one," Druitt said, pulling it out of the closet and gently running his fingers over the dark, velvet material. "Put this one on."

Helen looked at him, puzzled. "Are we going out?"

John laughed, the vibration accentuating his taut, thin muscles and making his balls and penis shake. Helen shuddered at the sight, wetness drenching her already swollen thighs. Would he always do this to her? Would the mere sight of him bring her to the verge of hysteria time and time again?

"What are you up to Mr. Druitt?" she asked coyly, beginning to sense where this was leading. She was a neophyte to love and sex. Everything she knew she had learned from him, and she understood now, with a heady sense of excitement and dread, that she was about to receive a new lesson.

"We're going to play a game, my love. Just a harmless distraction. Put on the dress. You can leave your underthings off," he added when she glanced at the bloomers and corset lying on the floor. "I put on my clothes, leave for a moment, and then knock at your door. You open it, and the game begins."

"And what is the name of this amusement, Mr. Druitt?"

He laid the dress carefully across the bed, then bent over and kissed Helen deeply, his warm tongue digging into her mouth. He pulled abruptly away, leaving her breathless.

"I shall call it… Awakening the Night Flower."

Helen knew the term. It wasn't one used by gentlemen, not in public anyway, and certainly not in mixed company. She shook her head, realization beginning to dawn. Surely he wasn't suggesting what she thought he was suggesting?

"I don't understand, John. What is it we're doing? What is it you want me to do?"

He smiled and took her hand. "You play a girl named Mary, and I'll play," he hesitated. "I'll play a man named Jack. I come to you for certain…services. And you, well…you provide them to me…for a price."

Helen drew in a shaky breath. A sudden rush of fear shot through her, and she trembled. John reached out his hands and rubbed her arms gently.

"Are you cold my dear? Is everything all right?" A look of concern spread across his pale face.

She swallowed hard. "I…I don't know, John. I don't know about this. You want me to play…a prostitute. Is that it?"

John eyed her calmly, still stroking her naked arms. "Yes, Helen. Just for a bit of fun, just as a lark. But if it makes you feel uncomfortable, my dear, we don't have to." He drew back, dropping the warmth of his hands from her arms and glancing quite obviously at the mantle clock above the fireplace.

"It's getting late anyway. Perhaps I should leave…" he suggested.

Helen looked at the time piece. It was only 7 o'clock. John never left this early and more often than not since her father was away spent the night. Was her reluctance chasing him away? And where would he go when he left her? She was no expert on sex or the desires of men, but she knew enough to know what took place every night around her. The streets of London were filled with prostitutes, fallen women trying to earn enough money to live and so called "gentlemen," who frequented brothels and the cobblestone alleys, quenching desires that their wives and mistresses could not. If she didn't meet his needs, would John find someone else who could? Had he before? He was no virgin when they had met. He knew his way around a woman and had taught her how to please a man as well as herself. Suddenly self-doubt overwhelmed her.

"Wait!" she called out as he finished buttoning his shirt to leave. "It's fine. I'll play."

John's trousers hung loose on his hips. He buttoned the fly then pulled his suspenders up and over his shoulders. He walked back toward Helen slowly, his face full of concern, his white shirt wrinkled but spotless.

"Are you sure my love?" he asked, lightly stroking her cheek with his fingers. "You know I would never force you to do anything against your will." He smiled.

For the first time that she could recall, something in his expression, his voice, frightened her. If she didn't know him, she would think him a liar.

"No, it's fine," she heard herself say, tamping down the sudden swell of fear. "What do I do?" She felt vulnerable and exposed, as though she were walking into a deep, dark forest, so black she couldn't see what lay just outside her path.

He took her hand and kissed it. When he looked back up at her, he was himself again, and she sighed, dismissing the sudden, irrational fear that had overcome her. This was just another lesson in love. A new and interesting twist in their relationship designed to enhance their bond, not break it. All that he had taught her, all that they had done, in the end, had accomplished just that. This lesson would as well.

"All right then," he continued. "I'll wait outside in the hallway for a few moments. You put on the dress. Tighten the laces as best you can. After a bit I'll knock on the door, you answer it, and…we'll take it from there."

Helen nodded. John left, and she slipped into the red, crimson gown. It was tight in the hips and bodice and low cut. She had worn it only once, to a party, but never again. It exacerbated every curve. She'd felt like a harlot. Wearing it now, she knew precisely why John had selected it.

A moment later, she heard the knock. She opened the door, and John stood there, his waistcoat and jacket on.

"May I come in?"

"Certainly, sir," Helen replied.

John nodded and whispered, "Good." Apparently her lack of calling his name pleased him.

She had no idea what to say next. She wasn't a prostitute. Knew none. Associated with none, although she had on one occasion assisted a beaten woman she'd found on the streets of London. Maggie had been her name.

"How much for the lady's company tonight?" he asked, his eyes drifting up and down her blood red dress. Helen's breath was fast, full of anxiety, her chest heaving. John leered at her breasts, his eyes almost black.

"Five shillings?" she answered tentatively, holding the bed post tight with one arm. She had no idea what the going rate for prostitution was.

Druitt threw his head back and laughed. "Five shillings? For a dollymop like you? What? Fancy yourself a toffer? The duchess of Windsor maybe?" His voice had changed. The way he talked, the filthy words he used. Even his accent was different. "I'll give you sixpence for a three-penny-upright and be done with you. They're a hundred more in the Chapel just like you, although I'll admit you're a pretty one." He reached out his hands and toyed with her long, blond curls. "Sixpence or I move on to the next night flower. What do you say?"

Helen had no idea what to say, so she nodded. She started to move toward the bed when Druitt grabbed her upper arm and jerked her toward him.

"I said a three-penny-upright you bloody haybag!" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a half-schilling coin, and tossed it onto the floor. "You can pick it up while you're doing your job down below. And you best not be a roller, stealing my money when I'm up your cock alley, or I'll beat you within an inch of your life! Do you hear?"

He had his hands firmly wrapped around both of Helen's wrists now, so tight her eyes watered from the pain. Her eyes were staring wide into his. Then he winked at her and smiled. This was just a game. They were playing parts. He the client, her the harlot. This was John, her John. There was nothing to fear here. She smiled weakly back.

"Fine. Whatever you want governor," she said with a cockney accent that made Druitt break into a full grin.

"Excellent," he said, sounding like himself again. "Up against the wall with you, blowsy!"

He whipped Helen around the bed post and slammed her against the bedroom wall. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that her head snapped back, bouncing off the hard surface and making her cry out in pain.

"Helen!" he cried, falling back into John again. "I'm so sorry! Are you all right? Did I hurt you, my love? I didn't mean…"

"I'm fine, governor. Now unbutton your pants. I don't have all night."

John smiled at her again, pleased at her playacting. He did as she asked, pulling his cock out of his fly. It was rock hard.

She reached out to kiss him, but he turned away instead reaching his hands to the top of her gown and pulling it down, freeing her ample breasts.

"I don't want your cock lips. I want your dairies."

He moved his hands to her hips to pin her against the wall while he sunk his teeth into her breasts, biting and sucking her nipples so hard she was sure he'd drawn blood. After a few moments he moved his hands up, pressed her shoulders against the wall, and whispered into her ear.

"Hike up your dress."

She did as he asked and without preamble, he grabbed his cock and drove it into her so hard and so deep she gasped out loud. She'd become dry, wasn't ready; the playacting, the whole evening throwing her mind and her body off. A part of her was shocked, terrified at what they were doing, at what he was doing to her. Another, darker part was so aroused she was shaking with need.

He pounded her into the wall, the paintings vibrating and finally crashing to the floor. The thumping was so loud Helen knew the servants could hear it downstairs, maybe even out on the street. She didn't care. He was driving so deep into her all she could do was feel and hang on, her nails tearing through his white shirt leaving splotches of blood that slowly oozed to the surface.

With one final thrust he plunged into her, pinning her against the wall, causing her legs to shudder around him, her muscles wrapping tight around his penis. He spilled himself into her, muttering obscenities as he did so, never kissing her, never caressing her, holding her roughly so she couldn't move, couldn't break free.

"John," Helen whispered, holding her arms tight around his neck now, trying to bring them both back to reality. His limp muscle eased out of her. She could feel his semen dripping down her leg, onto her red dress, down to the floor.

"Call me Jack," he whispered back. "When we do it like this, call me Jack."

END PART 1


	2. Chapter 2

Seasons: Fall  
><strong>Awakening the Night Flower (Part 2 of 2)<br>**(Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig)

**Author's Note:** _This is the fourth and final installment of my"Seasons" series, exploring how Helen and John's relationship originally might have been. This is the darkest of the series, as John becomes the Ripper. WARNING: Sexual violence! Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks as always to the world's best beta, MajorSam. Peace. NCS_

James Watson dug his fists deep into his pockets and shakily turned toward the top drawer of his walnut desk, searching for his tobacco and pipe, his face ashen. He needed something to do with his hands, anything to keep them steady and mask the shock of Helen Magnus' words and the all too vivid images now coursing through his mind.

"I should never have told you, James. I'm sorry," Helen said quietly. She'd withdrawn from the open window and was sitting in the velvet wing-back chair in Watson's drawing room, her face dull with humiliation. "It was ill mannered of me to speak of such personal…intimacies."

Watson closed his eyes, willing the vision of a half-naked Helen Magnus pinned against a wall, her face flush with passion, to go away. But he knew better. The image was forever seared into his brain. He only hoped he could hide his arousal when he eventually turned to face her.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she asked.

The waver in her voice made his knees weak. She was his dearest, most trusted friend, aside from John, and she had just admitted to unseemly acts, acts no woman of her bearing would perform let alone confess. He knew she was waiting for him to judge her and find her wanting or wanton, as the case may be.

Watson closed his eyes for a moment, breathed deep, then turned around and walked toward her, dropping on one knee in front of her and placing his hands on either side of her chair. She sat perfectly still, staring at him, her hands folded demurely in the lap of her light pink dress.

"I was the one who asked if there was anything amiss between you and John, Helen. You gave me a forthright answer."

She laughed derisively. "Far more forthright than you'd expected or desired, I suspect. A detailed account of John's sexual predilections?" She shook her head and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, James. It wasn't fair of me. He's your dearest friend. It's just…," she hesitated, her voice cracking. "I have no one else to ask," she whispered.

Watson swallowed hard. He knew that she and John were lovers. Although Druitt, gentleman that he was, or so James had thought, never spoke of it directly. He would have been a fool not to recognize the couple's relationship had moved far beyond feather touches and furtive glances months ago. While they didn't flaunt their intimacy, they didn't hide it. For many reasons, some of which Watson would rather not consider, he did his best to ignore it.

But there was no ignoring it now. John had had other women, certainly, although James had never given the matter much thought. Knowing Druitt, he could easily believe him to be an adventurous lover. But this? This was perversion. John was Helen's first. Everything she'd learned of love and sex Druitt had taught her, and now he had confused, brutalized, and humiliated the woman he supposedly loved. A sudden rush of rage washed over James and he forgot Helen's question, imagining instead a confrontation with Druitt, a confrontation in which he would beat the living daylights out of his oldest friend.

"James?"

He refocused his gaze, lost in his momentary daydream. "I'm sorry, Helen. What were you saying?"

"I need to know," she hesitated. "Is this normal?"

It was Watson's turn to hesitate.

"You mean what John asked you to do? What he did to you?"

"Yes."

Watson paused. "You're a brilliant woman, Helen, and far from naive. Your work here is centered on what the world considers abnormal. Like beauty, it's in the eye of the beholder."

Magnus looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "Now you're simply being evasive. Let me rephrase the question, and answer me honestly, James. Do _you_ consider this normal?"

James looked her in the eye. She deserved an answer. "For some people? Perhaps. For you? For John? The way it started? The way it's escalated into violence?" he paused again, the anger reemerging. "No."

Helen let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"He frightens me."

She said it softly to herself, but Watson heard it. A thought came to him, and he suddenly leapt up and sprinted to his desk, yanking open the right hand drawer and pulling out stacks of newspapers and notes.

Helen rose from her chair and walked toward him. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Looking for something…"

"I see that, but what?"

"What was the date of your…" he paused, unsure how to phrase it. "Your first encounter with John?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"When was the first time he asked you to dress like a whore?"

Watson might as well have doused her with cold water, she looked so shocked. He instantly regretted his directness.

"Two months ago, in late August. We'd planned a picnic, but it rained that afternoon and…," she paused, recollecting the events. "It was a Friday. John was on holiday. We were to spend the weekend together. There was a fair in Hyde Park on Saturday, and we were going to…."

"August 31?" Watson cried out, staring at a newspaper.

Helen furrowed her brow. "Yes, that's right. But how…"

"Think, Helen!" Watson commanded, rounding the desk, clutching the newspaper in his hand. "What else happened that night?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?" She could tell when James was on the scent of something, and he was bearing down on this prey particularly hard.

"Did John go out? Did he leave…after?"

"After what?" Her eyes widened. "Oh…no."

"Are you certain?"

Helen shook her head, confused. "James what is this about? Why the sudden turn? Newspapers, dates…What are you getting at?"

He paused, the immensity of the direction his steely mind was driving toward finally hitting him. His face dropped.

"Dear God, James? What is it?" Helen asked, reading his expression immediately, fear suddenly overwhelming her.

Watson collected himself. It was a wild, ludicrous notion. He was wrong to have even contemplated the idea let alone hint of it to Helen. "Nothing. Nevermind. Sometimes my enthusiasm escapes me."

Helen moved toward him and laid a hand firmly on his arm. "In my experience your enthusiasm often serves us both well."

His eyes softened. She was a vision, Helen Magnus. Beauty, intelligence, poise, grace…everything a man could want in a woman. He worked side by side with her daily, her dreams his and vice versa. How much of his "enthusiasm" was sheer desire on his part to rid himself of the one obstacle that stood between them?

"James?"

He lifted his head and smiled at her, shaken out of his ruminations. "Sorry, my dear. Lost in thought."

"Why is August 31 significant, and how did you surmise that that was the date of John and my first…" How had he phrased it? "Encounter," she finished quietly.

Watson stared at her a moment, fingering the newspaper he still held in his hands. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't let it drop. He sighed and handed her the front page of the **Daily Mail**.

She scanned the headline, the color draining from her face so suddenly he thought she might faint, but she stood still, her expression unwavering.

"August 31, 1888, was the night of the first confirmed Ripper slaying," Watson said with no further comment.

Magnus stared at the article, unable to meet James' eyes. Mary "Polly" Nichols was found on the edge of Whitechapel, her dress hiked above her waist, strangled, her throat slashed so severely her head was almost cut off. She'd been disemboweled.

Helen's stomach turned, and her vision swam. _No. It wasn't possible…_

She drew in a breath and rose up to her full height, tall for a woman, and looked James directly in the eye.

"How dare you!" she hissed, her voice filled with barely controlled rage.

"Helen…"

"How could you even broach such a notion?" she spat, walking in an aimless circle in Watson's parlor. "He's your best friend, James. My fiancé for God's sake! This is John we're talking about, not some maniacal stranger!" She stopped in front of him, holding the paper with one hand and slapping at it with the other. "How many times have you and he debated the Ripper murders? Amused yourselves by making lists of London's finest doctors and lords as possible suspects?" She shook her head. "John is gentle and kind and intelligent and…"

"And asked you to dress like a harlot, raped you, and practically strangled you in your last night together. Oh yes, Helen. I noticed the bruises. Your sudden penchant for high collars and ribbons hasn't escaped me."

That stopped her dead in her tracks. They stood facing each other, silence hanging heavy in the air.

"What did he call you when he did that?" Watson asked quietly, pointing at her neck.

Helen's face turned red. Tears were forming.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do, Helen. Every time he plays his…game," James said with distaste. "He gives you a name. What did he call you when he wrapped his hands around your throat and nearly shook the life out of you?" He pointed at the bruises he knew were hidden under her ribbon.

Helen swallowed hard, thinking back. Her last sexual role play with John several nights ago was still painfully vivid in her mind.

"Catherine. He called me Catherine," she whispered.

James dug his hands into his pockets again and looked down at his feet to avoid Helen's gaze. He didn't need to see the newspaper this time. The murder had taken place only three days before. Two women had been killed that night; Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Catherine's body had been particularly mutilated, her neck cut through to her spine. Her face had been shredded to ribbons with a knife, her eyes gouged out, her earlobe and nose sliced off. She'd been gutted like a pig, her bowels ripped out and slung across her shoulders, her uterus and kidney cut out and taken. James closed his eyes.

He knew Helen knew the particulars as well as he. They'd discussed it in wretched detail not two days before.

"Helen…" Watson started.

She was shaking now. With fear or rage he couldn't tell. Quietly, she set the newspaper onto his desk, turned, and began to collect her things.

"Where are you going?" he asked concerned.

"Home. Please call your driver for me, James."

He stepped forward and took her by the arms, gripping her firmly.

"I don't think that's wise, Helen. Not tonight. Stay here. I can have Mrs. Hensen prepare a room for you…"

"He's not in London, James," she said, answering his unspoken question. "He's in Bristol on business."

"That doesn't mean a thing and you know it."

They stared each other down, James' grip growing tighter on Helen's arms. She glanced down at his fingers.

"Wanting to leave your mark on me as well, James? As you said, I'm not naïve."

He blushed and let go, dropping his arms to his side, unable to meet her eyes.

"Fetch me your coach. I don't want to talk about this any longer, not tonight. Please, James, I can't," she added, her voice low. "We'll speak of it tomorrow. It will all make better sense in the light of day. That's what you always say, isn't it?"

He looked back up at her, her golden hair framing her brilliant blue eyes. He was in love with her, and she knew it.

"As you wish my dear, just promise me you'll be careful."

She smiled at him, having collected herself, appearing now as if they'd only been discussing the latest medical treatment for rheumatism over a cup of tea. "I'm fine, and I shall be fine. I'll come around tomorrow and we can… discuss this further. Good night, James, and thank you," she added, her eyes tearing up once more.

He rang the bell for his coach and escorted her down the hall, kissing her on the cheek goodnight, lingering longer on her soft skin than was prudent. She smiled and waved goodbye to him as though nothing had happened. But the night seemed darker, the fog thicker, and every cell in Watson's body told him everything had changed.

…

Helen didn't want to wake the servants, so she stood on her doorstep fumbling for her key the gas lamp on the street shrouding her in its hazy, yellow light.

Her mind reeled from the night's events. She closed her eyes, forcing the trembling in her hands to stop, and drew in a cool, shaky breath. Digging deep into her reticule, her fingers finally grasped cold metal, and she exhaled. She nodded to the driver who had waited in the fog to see her safely in, put the key into the lock, and opened the door. A small oil lamp sat on the hallway table casting an eerie glow on the grandfather clock that had marked the passage of time in the Magnus family's home for generations.

She slipped off her shawl, hung it on the hall tree, and took the lamp from the bench. Lifting it to her eyes, she headed for the stairs. The steps creaked as she moved upward. A draft of cold air braced her when she reached the top and she shivered. _What was the expression?_ she thought. Someone had just walked over her grave.

She dismissed it, stilling her mind as best she could, knowing it would be impossible. She wouldn't fall asleep tonight. How could she? Nevertheless she'd make a show of it lest Mrs. O'Flaherty, her maid, chide her again for her late hours and waning appetite.

She opened the door to her bedroom and found the older woman had set out her nightgown and left a bowl of fresh water, a sponge, and a towel for her evening ministrations. Helen smiled. Mrs. O'Flaherty was like a mother to her. She began to undress, removing her gloves and bonnet, unpinning her hair, taking off her shoes, her gown, and her camisole. Then she smelled him.

Citrus and musk.

His scent hung heavy in the air. Helen froze. She could feel the floorboards give way as Druitt walked up behind her, his warm breath lifting the hairs on the top of her head.

"Don't stop on my account, darling. You know how much I like to watch you undress."

John curled his fingers around Helen's arms, pulled her into his chest, and pressed his lips against her throat, raining warm kisses up and down her neck. She closed her eyes and trembled, her body sinking into his touch, her mind screaming to flee.

"Rather late this evening, aren't you?" he asked, lifting his head momentarily to whisper into her ear. "You've been spending a great deal of time with Watson these past few weeks. Too much time if you ask me."

She closed her eyes to steady herself before she spoke. "Don't be silly, John. James and I were working as always. Besides, I thought you were in Bristol?"

He snorted at that. "It doesn't matter where I am, Helen. I'm never far away, not from you. You know that."

A shiver crept up her spine.

"Cold?" he asked. John wrapped his arms around her, pinning her body against his, and kissed her neck once more, lapping at her soft, white skin. The kiss turned into a bite, and Helen gasped out loud at the heady mixture of pain and pleasure. Druitt lifted his head and sniffed her hair.

"I can smell him on you, you know. The stench of his pipe," he said in a low growl.

"John…"

"James hasn't done anything…unseemly, has he Helen?"

She forced bravado and tried to break free of his grasp. "I don't know what you're talking about." He held her tight, preventing her from turning in his arms to face him.

"I have an idea," he said, changing the subject suddenly. "Let's play our game…"

The words oozed from John's tongue like venom from a snake. What blood was left in Helen's head fell to her feet, and she feared she might collapse.

"John, please, not tonight," she forced out through clenched teeth, her heart racing with fear. "I'm tired," she lied.

He grabbed her arms roughly and spun her around.

"Tired? From being with James Watson all evening? I wonder why?"

"John," she pleaded, his fingers digging into her arms. "You're hurting me!"

He ignored her, tunneling his fingers deeper into her flesh. "Let's see…who shall you be tonight? Polly? Maggie? No. Tonight you shall be…."

"Helen," she cried. "I just want to be Helen," she implored him, tears beginning to slip from her eyes.

"Do you?" Druitt laughed, putting his finger in front of her face, scolding her. "Are you sure? Because that could be dangerous, you being Helen and me being Jack."

"John, please, this isn't you! I don't know what's happened, but I know this isn't right!"

"Oh but it is my dear," he said, moving his hand to stroke her cheek. "It's so very right." He smiled at her, and for the first time rather than her lover she saw a face she didn't recognize with eyes of pure evil. "Part of you hates it, but part of you loves the thrill of it all, and that's what frightens you above all else, isn't it Helen? That you could fall into the darkness and thrive there."

He dropped his hand, and she heard a click. She looked down and saw a knife blade shimmering in the dim lamplight. Instantly, the mutilated body of Catherine Eddowes flashed through her mind.

"Dear God…" Helen whispered.

"God has nothing to do with what we do here, Helen," he sneered. "Now up against the wall you filthy whore! It's time you earned your keep."

"John…" she begged, unmoving.

His left hand flew upwards and backhanded her across the face, rattling her teeth and knocking her to the floor. She laid there for a moment, stunned, her cheek throbbing, the taste of fresh blood on her tongue. When she turned her head, she saw Druitt towering over her holding the knife. His left hand was on his pants. He'd unbuttoned them, his cock fully erect and throbbing.

"Lift your drawers, girl, or I'll cut them off and maybe take a little piece of your lady parts with them, eh?"

"John, no," she whimpered. "Please…."

When she didn't do as he commanded, he dropped to his knees pushing her drawers and chemise above her waist. Helen screamed, kicking at him with her feet, striking him with her fists, doing everything she could to push him off, make him lose his balance. But he was too quick, too strong. She tried to crawl away, but he grabbed her by her feet dragging her back across the floor then punching her in the stomach so hard she couldn't breath. He swiftly covered her mouth with his left hand and pressed the knife against her neck with his right.

"Try that again you bloody tail and I'll gut you like a pig and bleed you out on the street, do you hear me!"

Helen nodded, her eyes wide with fear. Druitt smiled, released his hand, yanked her arms above her head, pinning her down with his legs and hands, and drove into her without mercy.

She wanted to cry out, scream, beg him to stop, but the menace in his voice as he'd held the knife to her throat had terrified her into silence. His eyes were open wide as he pounded into her on the hardwood floor, hurling the top of her head into the chest of drawers behind her with each violent thrust. His eyes were black, lifeless, devoid of any emotion except for hate. She closed her own tight and wished herself away, imagining another time, another day, when there was sunshine and grass and a John so gentle he had made her cry with his kindness.

She cried now from the pain, the tears silently streaming down her cheeks as he ravaged her, cursing and grunting as he did so. With one final shout he spilled into her, banging his pelvis against her and hitting her head so hard into the chest that she saw stars and cried out. He jabbed her in the ribs for it, pulling out of her, then beating her body with his fists, slapping her face with his hands, finally yanking her off the floor by her hair. She looked at him, his eyes still lifeless as he tossed her across the room like a doll, her head cracking as she hit the bedpost, her body falling limp to the floor.

The blood slid down Helen Magnus' brow like a trickle of warm sweat. The dim light bounced off the chestnut colored floor and hit Helen's blue eyes like shards of orange glass. She shut them tight in defense, but it was pointless. Pain seared through her forehead, traveling across her temples to the back of her head making the room spin in darkness and her stomach lurch in response. It took a moment for her to recall where she was and how she had gotten there, prone on the hard, cold floor, her garments hiked high above her waist, her thighs, her head, her body aching from the blows.

A quick flash of light blinded her, and she winced, squeezing her eyelids tight. She could feel the weight of his body on top of her. The soft, warm wisps of breath beside her cheek, the terrifying coolness of the thin metal blade pressed against her neck. She shivered. When she finally opened them, he was inches from her lips, his dark eyes meeting hers and smiling.

He was going to kill her. She was going to die. Yet all she could think of in that moment, as tears began to run helplessly down her cheeks, was how much she loved him.

That's when she heard it. Pounding.

It took her a moment to realize it was coming from the other side of the room. Someone was knocking at the door and shouting.

"Miss Magnus! Miss Magnus! Are you in there? Are you alright? What in God's name is going on child!"

It was Mrs. O'Flaherty.

John growled and turned his knife flashing as he moved toward the door.

_No!_ Helen thought._ Not her!_

"It's alright Mrs. Flaherty," Druitt purred, his voice smooth as melted chocolate. "I'm coming to open the door."

Helen watched helplessly as John crossed the room, blade in hand, the pain pounding her head like a hammer. She turned to look for something, anything she could use as a weapon, something she could use to stop him. Beside her lay a silver frame that had fallen from her chest. She grabbed it and pulled herself up by the bed post. The room spun in wretched circles, and she slammed her eyes shut. She heard him put the key in the lock and turn it. She had to act now. Helen opened her eyes, focused as best she could, and flung the frame like a disc at John's head. It struck him in the back of the neck, and he spun around in rage. He stormed toward her, slipping his knife in his coat, and wrapping his hands around her throat.

"You want to play, Helen? You want to play!" he shouted. "I'll take you to the Chapel and show you what playtime with Jack is _really_ like!"

The air sparked, her stomach lurched, and in a moment Helen was outside, the cold, thick fog surrounding her. John pinned her against a wall, her feet dangling off the ground, his powerful hands crushing her windpipe.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He was strangling the life out of her. The gas lamp that bounced its yellow light off the thick mist was becoming hazy. Her vision was growing dim, her life beginning to fade. She mouthed what she was thinking, and he suddenly let go, dropping her like a sandbag to the cobblestone street.

"What did you say?" he whispered, staring down at her beaten body, her throat swollen and red.

She tried to speak but couldn't. Could barely breathe, scarcely remain conscious. He knelt down and grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him, shaking her back to life.

"What did you say!" he shouted.

"I love you," Helen managed in a barely whispered rasp. "I love you, John."

He dropped his hand from her face and stared at her, his blue eyes suddenly sparkling in the dim light.

"Helen?"

Out of the distant fog a whistle blew. Lanterns swayed in the darkness. Shouting erupted from the street. John turned to look, and then disappeared.

Helen lay sprawled, barely breathing, on the cold, wet street. Two policemen rushed toward her. One checked her pulse while the other cried out for help to someone in the darkness beyond.

"She's alive!" one of them shouted.

"Was it the Ripper?" a voice asked her. "Was it him, ma'am?"

Helen opened her eyes and looked at the bobby, her vision blurry.

She couldn't answer, her throat too swollen to talk, so she shook her head instead.

_No._

The officer's face fell, sure he'd come close to catching the Ripper, but Jack was gone, disappeared like the apparition that he was into the thick, London fog. He'd return, she was certain, and when he did, she would kill him. She only prayed that when that day came, John would be somewhere far away in a meadow by a river perhaps, lying in the sun with a young girl, showing her what it was to be adored.

END


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